


Nowhereville

by a beta perspective (Ejunkiet)



Series: Moving Back Home for Dummies [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Deputy Derek, Gen, Humour, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Stiles Returns to Beacon Hills, almost PTSD, but a lot of love, post-college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 07:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1378366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/a%20beta%20perspective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles graduates from college and returns to Beacon Hills. It’s the first time in years, all he can associate it with is death, and he doesn’t know how he is going to manage living here for the indeterminable future. This has spoilers for the latest season of Teen Wolf, namely the finale of 3B. </p><p>  <i>“Let me just check one thing. You didn’t steal this, did you?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhereville

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to evil_bunny_king (now with her own ao3!), who is an enabler of the worst kind, and got me into this fandom in the first place. This demanded to be written, and written _now_. I want to make a sequel to this, as I am in love with the deputy idea. Blame the wonderful zosofi.
> 
> This has actually grown since I first posted it, nearly doubling in length, ha ha... always finalise your edits _before_ posting, kids!

\----

His story was never going to have a happy ending. Stiles knew that; had known it for a while. Had it cross his mind when they had uncovered their first body in the woods, the bloody half-carcass of Laura Hale. Had suspected it when the first of their teachers and then classmates had gone missing, then turned up dead. And then the school had turned into a graveyard and the hospital a death trap, and the sheriff’s office a bomb waiting to explode.

Stiles had seen more death than the average teenager, lost more than he thought he could take. But he’s still standing, in spite of it all. With his _humanity_ , and his lack of talent – unlike _Allison_ , who had been better than the rest of them put together - with the gaps in his memory, and the marks of atrophy in his brain.

Does the fact that he was still here make him lucky, or cursed? He’d say cursed. Put money on it, even.

The guilt was -  _is -_ the worst part. He feels impotent, powerless. Anything, _everything,_ he wished he could do, was too little, too late. Another name carved into his list, hidden beside his heart of those who had gotten caught up in the crossfire; losers of a rotten game that they never wanted to play, but couldn’t seem to escape – and there is nothing he can do.

Several months - a year - of therapy. Several weeks – a lifetime – of internment. It did the job, though, so when he does dream of the past, he hears only the quiet murmur of the orderlies, and rarely at that.

Weak and sick, in spite of his limitations, Stiles had somehow pulled through - picked up the pieces of his broken psyche and put himself back together.

Then he had left for college.

\---

It had taken several months, which had stretched into years, before he had managed to bring himself around to the idea of returning home.

It had taken only seconds to buy the tickets, but another year to actually book them, arrange the date and then cancel it. This was a recurring theme for the entirety of his academic career - make the plans, arrange a date, then cancel in a fit of panic that had alarmed his flatmates, until they recognised the yearly occurrence and learned to ignore it. Scott, after the first year or so, managed to make the trip up to see him, at least - and it's not as if they didn't _talk_ , there were skype chats, and texting, and the bi-annual group conference call - and if anybody wanted to mention Stiles' persistent absence, they were polite enough not to do so in front of him.

Then he had graduated, and faced with unemployment and a promise of a post-graduate thesis on the conceptualisation of sexual difference and gender identity in anatomical illustrations in sixteenth century Italy - _'Undressing Discourse'_ , the pun making the dry material palatable - _if he can fund it from his own pocket_ – he found that he could not avoid it any longer.

Therefore he arrived in Beacon Hills, on a cold Sunday morning, pale and freezing under a downpour that seemed to contain the rage of the pacific, and all he could think was that he’d picked one _hell_ of a weekend to make the trip. Then again, he had always kind of associated Beacon Hills with hell, so maybe it fit.

That was how he found himself crouched in the awning of a coffee place that he had previously known as an antiques store. The rain (intermittently hail) gave no indication of letting up anytime soon, and having already doubled the weight of his rucksack in the minute it had taken to step off the bus, Stiles had resigned himself to his fate, a half-drowned not-adult loitering in front of a coffee shop, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his life.

Or hell, the next few minutes.

It was times like this that he missed his Jeep – totaled in the final year of high school, bent around a tree, or so the report said, as ‘used as a high-velocity steel battering ram against the supernatural’ just didn’t have quite the same ring on the insurance report. Then he remembered just who it was that had been hurt in that incident - who'd almost died, and _would have died_ if it wasn’t for the wolf’s healing abilities - and he lets the memory go, like his jeep, when he turned it in to be made into scrap.

It’s not that he forgets, it’s more like he just compartmentalizes. Archives the past so that it doesn’t disturb his present. It’s what Stiles had learned during his months of therapy, and has been trying to do for the past four years.

He can’t say if he has had any real success, as he frankly doesn’t know.

He hopes he has, though.

\---

Anyway, he doesn’t want to call his dad. It’s – he glances at his watch and _fuck,_ it’s early – four in the morning, which means his dad would have only had about an hours sleep after his shift, and Stiles doesn’t want to break him away from that on a Saturday. He really should have sent more warning that he was coming. Or at least set a specific date and _time_ , so he could avoided this awkward mess.

He really doesn’t feel like trekking through the rain, and there was an hour and a half more to wait before this place apparently served coffee –a _piss_ _poor_ excuse for a cafe – and he had no idea if Scott is even _back yet_ -

Hissing a curse, he slips the bag from his shoulder, scrabbling through the mess of clothes and books until he reaches the odd-shaped bits of crap that litter the bottom. Feeling around for the smooth texture of plastic, his fingers close around the small baggie that contains his _stash_ , and double checking that the block really _is_ deserted, he works quickly to construct a makeshift spliff. The finished product is more tobacco than anything else but he makes do, lighting it quickly and taking a long inhale. And another.

When it hits him, he feels as if he can breathe again, the beginning flutters of panic dispersing from where they had begun to cluster within his chest. He exhales long and hard, leaning his body weight against the cold metal of the shutters that keep the cafe locked up tight, and contemplates his surroundings. Unsurprisingly for this time of day, this time of  _year_ , the streets are deserted, which means he doesn't have to try to be discrete about his activities. Although it's not like he got it _illegally_ \- this is medicinal, the leftovers from his last spring break trip up to Colorado - it's just that he may have used a somewhat shitty, lousy, flimsy excuse like 'back pain' that he's worried, as his father would see through that in an instant.

So he keeps an eye on the street as he cups his hands together, cradling the lit end as he tries to keep it away from the wind.

He is halfway through it and feeling quite comfortable when he spots the slow moving car that approaches from down the block, the bold blocks of colour signalling it as a member of Beacon Hills’ police force, and–

_Shit._

Stiles curls in on himself, turning and shuffling further into the awning so he can hide the evidence of what he is doing, and shit, _shit_ , he could really do without spending his first couple hours back in Beacon Hills getting arrested _,_ and _oh god_ , they’d wake his _dad-_

“Stiles?”

Stiles freezes, barely noticing the heat as his fingers tighten around the remains of the spliff in his hand. That voice. It _couldn’t be_ -

”Stiles. _Stiles._ ”

Remembering himself, Stiles manages to drop what remains of the roll in his hands to the floor, crushing it under his heel as he turns and manages a pleasant smile for the deputy. Unfortunately his mouth doesn't seem to get the 'play nice' memo, as what spills out of it the moment he turns around is: " _holy shit,_ _Derek_.”

A small smile breaks across Derek’s features, gruffer and more chiseled then before - if it was possible - before he waves Stiles forward with a quick gesture from the front window of the squad car. The _deputy’s_ car. Stiles eyes the movement, then Derek incredulously, but he's creeping closer despite himself, abandoning the protective cover of the awning to venture out into the rain.

He pauses at the drivers side window. “Let me just check one thing. You didn’t steal this, did you?”

There it was – the _really, Stiles?_ eye roll. Stiles feels himself grin in response, truly feeling it for the first time since he had crossed the signpost for Beacon Hills on the highway, before Derek pops the trunk and nods towards the passenger seat.

"Get in."

Grinning, Stiles glances both ways along the deserted street before circling the car, swinging his bags into the back before sliding into the front seat with a squeal of wet on leather _._ He sends Derek an apologetic glance, but he's waved down as Derek reaches forward to the central console, cranking up the heat. Stiles melts into the warmth with an embarrassingly loud sigh, and they spend the next couple minutes in comfortable silence.

\---

The period of peace and quiet doesn't last long, of course; Stiles being, well, _Stiles._ He's shed his jacket, and he's valiantly ignoring how his wet t-shirt clings to his chest like a second skin when he turns to face Derek. He has _questions._

“ _So._ ”

Derek doesn't say a thing, waiting with a small smile quirked on his lips as Stiles takes him in; and this, as much as anything, speaks volumes about how much has changed. The calm radiating from him was almost alien in comparison to the Derek he knew in the past, and it’s almost like Stiles is looking at a different person. He hadn't realised it, but they must have fallen out of touch over the years - and he can't remember the last time they had an actual conversation. Considering they had both nearly died for each other a dozen or so times, that was… honestly something he had never expected would happen.

Stiles breaks his eyes away from Derek's, glancing down instead at his hands. "You're a deputy in the Beacon Hills PD.”

He doesn't quite make it a question, but Derek glances down at his uniform anyway, as if only really noticing it for the first time. He can't seem to help the grin that brightens his face, and Stiles can't stop himself from matching it. He's been caught up in the raw power of Derek _Hale's_ enthusiasm.

“Yeah. Your father offered, said it would be good for me. And, well, he was right.”

Stiles grin softens, and he glances up from his hands, looking out through the windshield at the streets of his home town, glistening, wet and familiar. “You’ve been taking care of him, then?”

"Of course."

"Thank you.”

Giving another snort, Derek sends him a sidelong glance, raising a brow as if to ask _what else did you expect?_

“You’re welcome.”

The words get stuck in his throat, and Stiles ends up staring at Derek for a few moments before he drops his hands into his lap. It's too much, Stiles realises, as Derek's eyes are soft and he glances at his uniform - and he needs to talk about something else, think about _anything_ else.

When Derek turns his attention away from him, Stiles takes his lead, turning his focus to the window as he takes a moment to bring his emotions back under his control. The storm raging outside of the glass has gotten worse, the thump of water against the windshield increasing in pace and volume until the vibrations shake the metal frame of the car. It makes him shiver, crossing his arms to rub at his chest as he hunches closer to the heaters - but it serves as a distraction, and it's enough.

He's feeling calmer when he hears an odd, sort of snuffling sound just behind him. He turns just in time to see Derek leaning away from him, features scrunching into a scowl and - _there's_ the Derek Stiles knows and loves.

“ _Stiles._ ”

"Hmm?" Stiles glances from where he has positioned his hands to direct the air at his face back to Derek, attempting a bewildered smile even as Derek's frown deepens, and shit, he looks _pissed._

Stiles has no idea what has changed within the past thirty seconds to warrant this. He's just opened his mouth to say as much when Derek interrupts him with a question. "When did you start smoking?"

"I don't... what?" 

At his expression of confusion - _legitimate_ , mind - Derek gives him a _look_ , one that seems to question his intelligence on a very basic level. He jabs a thumb at Stiles' feet. "Your bags - and, well, _you_ \- stink of tobacco.”

Stiles stares blankly at the foot well, and it takes a moment for the facts to click.

_Oh shit._

Stiles flushes, a burning brand of heat that spreads from his chest right to his ears, and makes a desperate grab for the door handle just as Derek flips on the locks.

“ _Stiles.”_ Derek’s face was still bunched up, in such an expression of disgust that Stiles’ would have laughed if this wasn’t so mortifying _._ “It’s a disgusting habit. It smells _terrible._ Kind of makes me wish you had gotten the bite, just so you would have an idea of how _disgusting_ that habit is.”

“I’ll quit.”

“It’s a bit late for that. I’m going to be catching whiffs of you for _weeks.”_ Derek gave another long, exaggerated sniff to emphasize his point, wrinkling his nose as he catalogues it, before he pauses. His brows lower as he glances at Stiles, a small element of surprise in his eyes, and then, _oh shit_ , he _leans closer_ , hovering just below Stiles mouth as Stiles holds his breath, and _shit,_ _he is not prepared_ -

“Stiles, breathe out. Now.”

His chest aches, and reluctantly, he releases the air straining in his lungs in a long, disgruntled exhale. Derek pulls back slowly, and Stiles purposely avoids his gaze although he can feel it burning against the back of his skull as he turns to face to the window.

“Weed _,_ Stiles? _Really?”_

"I actually have a prescription-"

"Really. What's it for?"

"...I don't need to tell you that."

He can feel the wait of Derek's disapproval as if it is a physical thing, a weight pressing at his shoulders, and he pretends to contemplate the rain, grinding his teeth in his jaw until he just can’t ignore it anymore, turning to face Derek with a scowl.

“It’s not as if I planned to run into a  _freaking_ _werewolf deputy_ outside of a deserted coffee shop at-” he gestures at the clock displayed in garish fluorescence on the dash “- _four thirty_ _in the bloody morning!_ ”

Derek’s expression is distinctly unimpressed, and after a few more seconds of scowling – more of a stare-down, then anything else - Stiles turns away again with a huff, staring pointedly out the window. They are _not_ having this conversation.

There's another moment of silence, before Derek exhales, slowly, in a long, pointed sigh that makes the air hiss between his teeth.

"Fine."

There's a rustle of movement in his periphery, and Stiles flinches, almost expecting a cuff, _as that's just what the asshole would do,_ when the scenery that he is watching jolts, and the car comes to life. Stiles glances back to Derek as he flicks on his indicator and turns back into the street without saying anything, and Stiles' has just opened his mouth to speak again when Derek interrupts him.

“I’m taking you home.” He must sense the hitch in Stiles breath as he rolls his eyes, fingers twitching in their grip of the steering wheel as if he's reconsidering his decision to not employ violence. “I’m not ratting you out, Stiles. I’m dropping you off. You can go sleep this off, and then have a _proper_ reunion with your father. He’s missed you.”

Stiles doesn’t quite know what to say to that, and so he lets his jaw click shut, the click of his teeth just barely audible over the sound of the heaters that are still blasting heat into the front of the car. It occurs to him that the temperature must be _stifling_ for Derek, so he reaches over to lower the strength of the blowers, directing a few at his soaking jeans, before turning back to observe the moving landscape outside his window.

After a little while – too soon, it seems, although he could possibly attribute that to the lingering effects of his 'stash', _patent pending_ \- they turn off the main road, and stop outside Stiles’ house, alongside his dad’s squad car.

Stiles somehow finds the gumption to turn back to Derek and offer him a small smile, and is gratified when he readily returns it. “Thanks, Derek.”

That gets him a raised brow, and _hello,_ there’s another of the expressions he knows and loves Derek for.

“That’s Deputy Hale, to you.”

Stiles snorts as he grasps the handle and levers his way out of the car – managing somehow to _not_ fall over and make more of an ass of himself than he has already – and Derek follows him, grabbing Stiles bag from the trunk before making his way towards the front of the house.

\---

Derek passes him just as he's shouldering his backpack, and Stiles winds up following him up to his _own_ front door, using the extra hands to hunt for his house key in one of the many pockets of his jeans. He's just about managed to fit his hand into a wet, clingy pocket - and really, what kind of devilish material were these things  _made of? -_ when he hears a clatter on the porch and glances up just in time to see Derek procure the spare key from beneath a tile on the far side.

" _Uh."_

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. Derek sends him a wry look, a single brow raising at whatever his expression is doing –and he's _shocked_ , okay, _really_ _shocked_ – before he lets them both in, depositing Stiles’ bag by the corner of the stairs. Stiles is slower as he makes his way into his entrance hall, blinking at the darkness that greets them. His father is _definitely_ still asleep, fast asleep, and likely to remain that way if Stiles kept as quiet as possible...

"I'm not sure whether to be impressed that you are using a _key_ instead of a window, as really, I didn't even know we had a spare there.”

He can't help himself. He _lives_ and _breathes_ snark - he would probably stop functioning altogether if he stopped relying on it to deal with situations, or at the least he'd be weirdly quiet-

“Upstairs, Stiles. I’ll lock the door behind you.”

Stiles glances up at him, shoulders hunched under the weather as he hovers awkwardly in the door frame, and Stiles nods, smiling as he leans back against the bannister. His eyes are adjusting as he takes in the room again, and although it's barely visible in the gloom of early spring, it is _exactly_ how he remembers it. He drops his backpack next to where Derek laid his other bags on the floor next to the heater, breathing in deep as he's hit by the familiar smells of home.

He can't help the stupid smile he's wearing when he turns to face Derek again.

“Alrighty. Thank you." The opportunity arises, and he can’t afford to miss it, a smirk twitching at his lips. " _Deputy_.”

It comes out a little more suggestive than he had initially intended, but Derek doesn't take offense as it; just gives him another smirk, tipping an imaginary hat before he takes a step back, the wood creaking as he takes the door with him. Stiles has just put his foot on the first step when he hears a pause, then the creak of wood as the door reopens just a bit, sending a rectangular window of light across the stairs. He turns around just in time to catch Derek’s smile, bright, warmer than he has ever seen it.

“Stiles. It’s good to see you back.”

The door finally closes with a quiet _snick_ and Stiles somehow makes his way up the stairs, stumbling head first into his old bed.

\---

It's almost too much like he is sixteen again. He's been plunged straight back into a past that he had spent the last four years running away from, and it should terrify him.

But it doesn't. He breathes in the dusty, aged smell of his old blankets and sheets - clean, as if they had been changed every other month _just in_ _case_ \- and instead of the pain he expects to feel in his chest, he finally feels as if he is _home._

He may be unemployed and back living with his father, in a bedroom still decorated with the poor taste of a teenage social outcast. He may have to start working a shitty day-to-day job in a city he had once - _drunkenly_ \- professed to hating, scrounging together every single last dime and quarter to pay the fees for grad school, because those damn privatised bastards were _greedy._

But he's older. He's been through hell - _literally_ \- and back, and despite all his weaknesses and his simple humanity, he's still standing.

He's made it this far, and, for some weird reason that he can't quite identify, or put into words - he thinks he can make this work.

For a couple months, at least.

\---

He wakes up the next morning to a loud _thump_ and a muffled yell, as if someone had just dropped something heavy and uncomfortable onto a body part just outside his room. Digging himself out from the nest of blankets that he had somehow managed to construct around himself during the night, Stiles breaks into a grin as he spots his father in the doorway, an upturned box of case files littered at his feet.

"Hey, Dad."

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://abetaperspective.tumblr.com/)   
>  _Undressing Discourse_ was the title of my beta's _actual_ thesis - and I have _never_ been happier to study a science.


End file.
